Like Being Shot Rewrite
by Jackie Ryans
Summary: John Watson recalls being shot in Afghanistan, Sherlock's suicide, and another death that comes too soon after. Note: this is a rewrite, but you don't need to read the original to understand it.


**Hey, guys, haven't done a Sherlock fic in awhile, so I thought I'd give you one. Hope you like it, let me know what you think!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

Being shot...it's everything. Every bad feeling, every sad song, every nightmare on Earth combined.

It's the pain of a projectile hurtling through your skin, veins, muscle, then lodging into your bone. It's the agony of hot metal spinning and twisting and tearing through you.

It's a blur. Then it's the sharpest thing you'll ever see. Then it's a blur again. A cycle that feels never-ending, an eternity of shadows and mist followed by perfect hearing and vision, then back to the shadows again.

For the good Doctor John Watson, the blur comes after the pain. After the bullet rips through his sinew, forcing him down on hot sand. In the blur, his thoughts are jumbled, some mix of fear and loneliness, prayer and goodbyes. All he knows is pain, all he can focus on is that solitary moment of absolute, gut wrenching torment.

And then out of the blur. He sees the sand more detailed than he ever did, a thousand grains spitting into the air, against blue sky and smoke and fire. He feels the heat stronger than he ever has, smelling the sulfur and the sweet gasoline. He can hear the screams of every individual soldier, some crying for help, some for peace, some for strength. It is in perfect clarity that he sees a man leaning over him, face burnt by the sun, calling down to him, telling him to just hold on. He can see every line on the man's face, memorize his hands as he uses them to push down, apply pressure, decrease blood flow. John Watson knows what to do, how to do it, and why. He knows everything he's ever known in his life at that moment.

Then back into the blur, where thoughts are scattered and panicked, where everything is uncertainty. It is here where John Watson spends his last moments of consciousness out on the battle front of Afghanistan. It is here where he begs for God to let him live. It is here where everything is tension and regret, a thousand thoughts swimming deep inside his brain, confusing him, none coming to the forefront and bringing him a solid concept of what to say or how to act.

He is in terror. He is in pain. He feels sorrow and regret and anger and shame and uncertainty. And he feels it all again, that one long day in London.

It starts sharp, when they events begin to unfold. He's in a cab, and he's aware, far more aware than usual. And as he's stepping out, he gets this phone call, and everything is so distinct.

He can smell the exhaust from the cab, feel the humidity in the air as though he can reach out and touch all the molecules of water floating around him, stop and count them. He can feel every hair on his body stand, he can hear the birds cooing and the construction work in the distance. He can taste the acidity of pollution in his mouth.

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

And it is still sharp, and he can perfectly see Sherlock's silhouette against the sky, and he sees perfectly the curls on his head, dancing in the breeze. He knows every bit of dust in the air, every rock on the ground. Everything is focused.

"It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

And now the sharpness starts to fade. Confusion is beginning to take its place, and the blur is coming.

"I'm a fake."

He is losing details, everything is getting hazy. It is the blur trying to take him, and he fights it, but he's spinning.

"Nobody could be that clever."

_Wrong_, he tries to think, but the edges are growing soft and fuzzy. _Wrong. _The blur has a firm grasp now. The blur will take him soon.

"You could."

And he can barely register his friend's little laugh. At some point he has moved forward, with his hand outstretched. His is up, as if he longs to reach out and grab, while his partner's is out, yearning to hold, cling on to this life.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"

So much confusion in the blur, so little awareness. He doesn't understand, he can't, the blur has him in its grasp. He is firmly trapped in Hell.

"It's my note. What people do, don't they, leave a note."

He vaguely understands, but needs to ask. Needs to know what's happening, if only he could come to. If only the blur would leave his mind. Desperation fills him.

"Goodbye, John."

There is only a moment more of the blur, a moment more of fear and panic and obscurity, and then Sherlock falls, and the sharpness returns. He can again taste the pollution, mixing with blood in his mouth as he has bit his tongue in alarm. He again smells exhaust, he again hears birds and construction. And he hears his own screaming. And he sees the swish of Sherlock's coat, and the shine of his shoes, and his curls pushed back as air pushes against him, not enough to cushion the fall.

The sharpness is not there for long. As his partner hits the ground, all senses leave him, and that hated blur returns. He is not so aware that he is rushing to his friend, not so aware of the details anymore.

At some point, a man on a bike hits him, and it is unexpected, and probably painful, but he does not feel physical pain just now, only the agony in his chest. He can only stumble to the body and the people surrounding him, his whole world blurry and spinning. He is pitched in and out of light, he is falling over and over again, he is replaying the image of the most horrifying thing he's ever seen in the corners of his mind.

He is barely aware of the wrist he holds. He is barely aware of the people around him. He sees the blood on the pale man's face, and mutters something about Jesus that doesn't matter now, nothing matters now, because Sherlock is dead, his Sherlock is dead. it is all a blur for a long while. His whole life, everything he is and everything he does, it's all just a weird, dark cloud.

The sharpness does not return until he's standing with a lovely old woman, in a tragically familiar place. And when it does return, he can see the details again, the shine on the tombstone, the pollen on the flowers, the freshly dug dirt near their shoes.

In the blur, his feelings were muted, but now he can feel again. And he is sad. And he is angry. How dare he be dead. How dare that blur come to him. He could've done something, he should've. But no, no he did not. If he had stayed sharp, if that blur did not come, maybe somehow, he tells himself, maybe somehow he could've saved him. But deep down he despairs, deep down he knows he could not save that poor soul.

"You were the best man, the most human - human being that I've ever known, and no one will convince me that you told a lie."

He declares his loyalty, he apologizes in his own way. Everything is distinct, his words are loud, his heartbeat's vibrating in his ears. He can remember calling the friend a machine.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

In sharpness there is only honesty, there is only emotion and confession. He says now what he could never say before, not when it wasn't like this, not when he was just himself. When he was ordinary, when this didn't haunt him.

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead."

The sharpness is fading. He is running out of rawness. Soon he will be as he once was, but altered.

"Stop this."

And that is all he can demand in this state. And being aware of everything, knowing everything at once, it all goes away. Like he's back in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound. His life, now, it's no longer like being shot.

Recovery mode, that's what comes next. He recovers. Goes back to his flat, cleans his things, moves on with his life. But it's all slightly different now, like one thing's just off. One paper askew on a desk, one file out of order in a drawer, that's what his life feels like now.

Until three months later.

That's when it's like he's shot again. It's an ordinary day, but his leg is hurting, and he has nothing to distract him. This, combined with the silence of the flat, prompts him to go to the store, fetch some dinner.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out, do you need..." _Oh._

It is the blur, returning. Returning because she's pale, she's still. Sitting in her rocking chair, with the television still on in front of her. The tea in her pretty little cup is is in shade as he calls the police. He is in shade as they take her away. The darkness is surrounding him as he sits alone in his flat, alone because he's lost his consulting detective, lost his landlady.

It's too soon after Sherlock. It's just too soon. He isn't strong enough yet. He cannot keep himself together. He cannot fight the blur as it takes him, and he spends that night as only flesh. His mind is in shadows, he is empty. He lies in bed, eyes open, staring, but he is not seeing. He is damaged.

He is in a blur when some distant niece arrives the next day. He expresses condolences, but does not feel his sincerity. She is polite, but not kind. Cold and stiff, she says something about Mrs. Hudson being a sweet old bird, something John doesn't quite register. She leaves for the time being.

He sits on the stairs the next day, and watches the men from the truck, in and out, moving through her apartment and taking her things away. Her pretty tea pots, her books, that rocking chair. They are bored, uncaring, and the niece is only present for a few minutes.

"Most of it'll be sold off or donated." She tells him on the steps. "If you want anything, just grab it."

He takes nothing. They cart everything away, and by nightfall, her flat is cold and empty, like he is. The blur spreads.

He leaves the flat the next day, but the dismal feeling of the place carries on with him on the street. He, still in his blur, is barely aware of the black car pulling up next to him. He is barely aware of getting in, barely aware of Anthea giving him her condolences. He has not seen her or her master since Sherlock was alive, but he registers that they have seen him, watched him.

The sharpness finally comes when he sees Mycroft. He is sitting in his office, and looks exactly the same as the last time John saw him, just before Sherlock's death. His small smile is tired, his suit is flawless, his office is spotlessly clean.

"I'm very sorry about Mrs. Hudson, John. I know you and Sherlock were very close to her."

There is a painful silence at the reminder of the past. Back when the flat had life, back when he wasn't alone. He is sharp, all of his emotions are clear and defined, he can feel the aching stab of loneliness.

"Mrs. Hudson left a large sum of money to Sherlock. Because of his passing, however, that money will go to you. I'll take care of it."

Mycroft has taken care of a lot, lately. John is taking time from work, but never gets a bill for anything. The man is clearly grateful for all the doctor had done for his brother, and keeps him safe, watching over as always.

"Thank you." It is the first thing he says to him since that day, when both were in pain, both were unaware of Sherlock's upcoming doom. Mycroft sensed it, yes, but brushed it off, unsure. Oh, how his uncertainty broke him later on.

"My pleasure." And it is his pleasure to help and protect John, but he finds no joy in needing to, no joy in their sad little situation. John knows this, for he is all knowing, he has every bit of information gathered in his head and organized perfectly.

The blur sets in when he leaves. It stays at the funeral. The stuffiness of the funeral home seems to set into his bones, and he is trapped in the dark cloud, emotions mixing, a proper one not clearly presenting itself. He sees Lestrade there, the first time since Sherlock held a gun to his head. He did not communicate with him after Sherlock's passing: he could not. Nor could he with Molly, who stood next to him, with red rimmed eyes. Both look older, more haggard.

He can barely grasp the eulogy, some dramatic and emotional speech made by an old friend of her's he never met. They all kneel in front of the coffin, and when it comes time for him to say something, he is in his blur, and cannot convey what he feels for her, cannot say his last words to her body. He thanks her, he wishes her the best, but it scantily registers in his broken mind.

He stays until sunset, follows her hearse in a cab. He watches silently as some men lower her coffin into a hole. There is little emotion in him, but he feels something, a small something, pulling him. He walks away slowly, to the other side of the cemetery. Night is falling when he comes upon the shiny black tombstone.

Sharpness returns, and he thinks of her. Meeting her, having tea with her, seeing Sherlock defend her. Finding her in her rocking chair, cold and still. Everything flashes vividly through his mind.

He stares at the tombstone. "I'm almost glad you're not here." He says aloud, for sharp things induce truth. "This would've destroyed you."

It is dark now, and the first stars come out. John sees them all, sees every leaf on every tree and every scrape on their bark and every blade of grass and speck of dirt. He is sharp, he is clear.

"I wonder if you would've admitted it." He muses, and the sharpness leaves him, thankfully not pulling him into the blur. He is recovering now.

Recovering with a new landlady, who's old and fat and doesn't ask him about his day when they pass in the hallway. Her grandchildren are noisy and her cooking is smelly, for which he is oddly thankful, because chaos has been absent those last three months.

And he recovers in his lonely flat, and he spends his nights in silence because no one is having experiments, no one is playing violin or pulling him out the door for a high speed chase down an alley.

His therapist is concerned.

"John, I fear all of this is having a very negative effect on you."

"Negative? No." He feels slightly guilty for his sarcasm. "Two people are dead, nothing negative about that."

"I know you're upset. But these things happen. They'll pass. It'll get better."

And it does. He starts working again, goes out with friends once and awhile, brings flowers to both graves each week, despite thinking Sherlock wouldn't like them. But nothing is as good as it once was. Nothing fully heals.

John Watson is still sad, and empty, and lonely. Just less so. And he spends a very long time being a little less sad. A little less empty. The only one in his flat, noisy children he does not know running around below him. It reminds him of being shot, and how bitter reminders could be.

And he spends a very long time feeling small, feeling like less than a man.


End file.
